Sophie stood before the weatherworn door that read The Cosy Café. The letters were uneven, one y barely clinging to the word, and a stray U seemed to tremble. A handful of wilted lilac bushes, a rusted bin and a pair of pigeons basking in the autumn sun lingered by the footpath.
Welcome, new life, she muttered, slipping the key into the lock.
The air that greeted her was damp, mouldy, tinged with old spices. Sophie sneezed, cracked the windows, inhaled deeply and rolled up her sleeves.
Youve lost your mind! her friend Sarahs voice crackled over the phone. You bought a café? Here, in this part of town? Did the layoff hit you that hard?
Its better to bake buns than to count other peoples pounds, Sophie sighed, wiping down the tables. Besides, its always been my dream. Remember how Grandmother used to?
I remember, Sarah said. Dreams are one thing, a rundown shed is another.
This isnt a shed. Its my bakery.
She christened it Marmalade Loaf because her grandmother always folded grated clementine zest into cinnamon rolls, filling the house in winter with a sweet citrus perfume. Sophie wanted that warmth back.
The first week saw no customers. The café sat on the fringe of the estate, where only those who knew the shortcuts passed. Sophie rose at five, kneaded dough, baked, washed, experimented with recipes. The scent of cinnamon and vanilla mingled with fresh coffee. She placed a vase of clementines on the windowsill and stuck a sign on the glass: Pop in you wont regret it.
Grandma, help me, she whispered, arranging a fresh batch of buttery snails.
As if on cue, that very evening Grandma Margaret from the house next door shuffled in.
Are those your buns I smell? I was just passing by. She peered at the tray, took a bite and nodded approvingly. Delicious. Tomorrow Ill bring the ladies for a game of noughtsandcrosses. You keep the coffee brewing.
The next day three elderly ladies arrived, each with a bundle of stories. A week later three university students drifted in, then a delivery boy, then a mother with a pram. Word spread quietly but steadily through the neighbourhood.
Sophie refreshed the frontage. The old Cosy banner gave way to Marmalade Loaf Home of the Citrus Bun. Daniel, a student, offered to help.
Youre a designer? he asked.
Not yet. Im studying. But your buns are divine. Id love the sign to look as good as they do.
For the first time in ages, Sophie felt needed. That evening Daniel brought a girl: This is Katie, a photographer. Wed like to launch your socials. Sophies eyes welled.
Good afternoon, a trembling voice called from the doorway. Sophie?
She turned. In the doorway stood Liam, her exboyfriend the one who had vanished a year ago to think and taken a job with a colleague.
What are you doing here? his tone was flat.
I heard you opened a café. Thought Id have a look.
Ive looked. Im leaving.
Wait. We once.
You once said I was boring. Now youre bored, huh?
He forced a crooked grin. Not that. I heard youve invested. You know, until were officially divorced, everything you acquire is still joint property.
Youre serious?
I dont want a fight. Maybe we can strike a deal? Ill help with repairs, take a few percent
Sophie stayed silent, then slipped off her apron, walked to the door and flung it wide.
Liam, the doors there. Get out, and dont come back.
He lunged forward, but Grandma Margaret and her friends appeared in the doorway.
Whos the noisy one now? Off you go, love. This is a ladys realm.
Liam muttered something and stalked off.
Who was that? one of the ladies asked.
An exhusband, comes for a share.
Does he look well fed? the grandmother snorted, snatching another bun from the tray.
Sophies mother called. Whats happening? Liam called, says you shouted at him.
Hes come to claim a cut of the café. Do you think thats normal?
Well, hes practically my husband. Maybe youll reconcile. Youre not getting any younger.
Mum, I built this from scratch, alone. Im happy. Cant you be proud?
Im worried. The cafés in a rough part, the divorce is pending, and your savings are a joke. Thats not a life.
This is my life, Mum. I chose it.
Fine. If you go bust, dont call me.
Sophie hung up, stared at an empty mug for a long while.
May I come in? Katie peeked in, camera hanging from her neck. We just finished a shoot Are you crying?
Sophie dabbed a tear. No. Just remembering what Grandma used to say: if the dough sticks, you must be patient. Its not ready yet.
Youre strong, Sophie. Were with you.
Katie wrapped her arms around Sophie and handed her a phone. Look weve posted the first photos. Already two hundred followers.
By spring the line for clementine buns curled around the block. New items appeared: poppyseed rolls, cheese twists, apple strudels. The bakery buzzed with life.
One evening a silverhaired man with a bouquet knocked on the door.
May I? he asked. Im the father of that Katie you met. My daughter moved to Manchester, but she tells me everything. Im a retired baker, now with too much time. Could I help?
Sophie nodded.
From then on each sunrise they kneaded together. He told stories, she listened and learned. Occasionally strangers drifted in some to eat, some to hide from the world.
Hey, Sophie, Sarahs voice buzzed again. Ive been thinking maybe I should quit the accounts job.
You still love buns?
More than that. Will you take me on?
Sophie looked around the freshly painted space, tables occupied, the scent of clementine filling the air, a folder of expansion plans on the counter.
I will. Just buy your own apron.
She laughed as a gentle spring rain pattered against the windows. The bakery lived, people came and stayed. For the first time Sophie didnt fear the future, because she finally had something real.
She woke before the alarm, the tram humming outside, rain tapping the sill. The café awoke with her: a socket clicked, the coffee machines green light glowed, the ancient fridge rumbled.
Seven months since opening, the bakery ran its own rhythm. Downstairs, now, was Nicholas Peters Katies father the first to arrive, firing up the ovens, checking the starter, conjuring new recipes. Sophie slipped barefoot onto the floor.
Morning, chief! he chirped, hands deep in dough.
Morning, wizard. Whats on the menu?
Walnuthoney spirals and pumpkin strudel for the connoisseurs.
Sophie poured herself a coffee, settled by the window. Flour, caramel, and rain scented the room, and she felt every moment was worth it.
The shop had grown into the adjoining shopfront, a tiny childrens corner sprouted, a bookshelf was placed, and a piano a gift from an elderly neighbour sat in the corner. My husband used to play it; now let it live on, the neighbour had said, embracing Sophie.
Someone should put a statue of Sophie out front, Nicholas joked, dusting flour from his sleeves. Her buns heal more than any doctor.
One day a sharply dressed woman in her forties entered. Good afternoon. Im Christine, a solicitor, representing Mr. Alex your former partner.
Sophie felt a knot tighten in her throat. She steadied herself.
What does he want? Christine
